


Brighter Than Constellations

by jarjarbinks



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-28 07:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarjarbinks/pseuds/jarjarbinks
Summary: Five times Sergio Ramos kisses Gerard Piqué and one time Gerard Piqué kisses Sergio Ramos





	1. Blaugrana Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> My girlfriend decided I should write football fic and gave me the prompt, so y'all can blame her ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Gerard Piqué’s obsession began harmlessly enough. It was in his early days with the Spanish team, after one game or another. He no longer remembered the details of the match, other than that they had won, and the whole team was alive with excitement in the changing room afterward. Gerard himself had played neither poorly nor exceptionally, but he had done his job and was celebrating with the rest like he’d just won the World Cup.

At some point in the midst of the chaos, Gerard was engaged in a lively conversation with some of his teammates, when a strong arm suddenly wrapped itself around his body. “I even have some blaugrana kisses in me tonight,” a loud voice announced. Gerard turned his head to see the face of Sergio Ramos grinning up at him.

“Who says I want a kiss from a meringue mouth?” he replied, his lips tugging up in a half smile, almost against his will.

Ramos’s grin grew. “Spoken like a man who’s never gotten a kiss from Sergio Ramos.”

“All I’ve seen that mouth be good for is talking.”

And now the grin became an impossibly filthy smirk, and Ramos leaned in to speak in a conspiratorial manner. “Oh, it is good for much more than that, Piqué,” he said. And Gerard had never noticed how beautiful the man’s lips were. How full and pink and soft, how perfect they were for – 

Gerard realized his silence had lasted just a moment too long, and the chance for any kind of witty reply was lost. Not that he felt capable of coming up with one anyway. “You need a shower,” was what he said instead. “Your hair looks like a mop.”

Ramos laughed, leaning up to press a kiss to Gerard’s cheek, and then he and his perfect mouth and his strong, warm arm were gone, and Gerard was left feeling suddenly both very cold and very hot all at once.

That night Gerard lay in bed, unable to sleep, haunted by the memories of soft lips pressing a feather-light kiss against his skin. Finally, after hours of trying to push his thoughts onto anything else in the world, he gave in, his hand finding its way to his cock.

And ever since, Gerard Piqué had had an obsession with the mouth of Sergio Ramos.


	2. We All Bleed Red

For the most part, the obsession was never a problem. Though Gerard sometimes caught himself staring a little too long, and more than one night found him with Ramos’s name on his lips as he brought himself to climax, he was able to keep his composure around the other man, repression and denial becoming his closest allies.

And then it was 2010 and they really had won the World Cup, and Gerard had fire in his veins, feeling himself burning hotter and brighter than he ever had before, a bright star in a brilliant constellation that dimmed every other light in the sky. The party that night felt like it could go on forever. They were all invincible – immune to alcohol and fatigue. 

As the night went on, Gerard found himself watching Ramos more and more. And slowly, repression and denial were burned away by drink and divinity, replaced by nothing but a hot, aching need deep in his stomach.

Ramos was draped over Iker when Gerard approached, head flung back in laughter at something the other man had said. Gerard knew he was probably interrupting, but he was too ablaze with liquor and fire to care.

Ramos turned his head as Gerard rested a hand on his shoulder. “Any blaugrana kisses in you tonight?” Gerard murmured softly. He wasn’t sure what brought those words to his mouth. He was sure the other man didn’t even remember that night, that moment that had been seared into Gerard’s memory ever since.

But then the Sevillan’s face broke into a blinding smile, and he detached himself from Iker to cup Gerard’s face in his hands. “Tonight, my friend, we all bleed red,” he said, and pressed a firm kiss onto Gerard’s cheek, that seemed to last just a little bit too long.

Gerard grinned down at the shorter man. “We won,” he said. “We fucking won the World Cup.”

Ramos’s grin was just as bright in return. “We fucking won the World Cup!” he crowed.

“We’re a fucking _constellation_ , Sergio.”

“You’re fucking _drunk_ , Geri.” Ramos’s eyes were so bright, so alive, so warm, and Gerard was lost in them, lost in his laugh, unable to do anything but smile down at the other man and try to hang on to the last bit of control inside of him telling him not to bring those beautiful lips to his own.

And then someone was calling Gerard’s name, and he felt himself coming back into his body, into a world that existed beyond the magnetic pull of Sergio Ramos. With a mighty effort, he dragged himself away from Ramos’s grip, turning towards whoever was calling him and not looking back.


	3. Ready to Explode

Spain won the European Championship too. They were on the top of the world, and nothing could bring them down.

Much of the evening was a blur for Gerard, a jumble of excited conversation and celebration and alcohol, until he had beaten Cesc at one too many games of poker, and his friend abandoned him, grumbling something about needing another drink. Gerard found himself alone for the first time that evening, sprawled on a sofa in a darkened corner of the room. He took a sip from the drink in his hand and looked around for someone new to give him attention.

“Drinking alone, Piqué?” a voice asked, and Gerard felt a weight settle onto the couch next to him. He glanced over to see Ramos making himself comfortable beside him, just slightly too close to be respectful of Gerard’s personal space boundaries. Fortunately, Gerard had very little concept of such boundaries.

“Well, I was trying to.” But he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. 

“It makes me uncomfortable, doesn’t suit you,” Ramos slurred. At least, Gerard was pretty sure that’s what he had said.

Gerard grinned. “Are you drunk, or just Andalusian?” 

Ramos punched him in the arm. “Andalusian accents are the most beautiful accents in all of Spain, in all the fucking _world_ ,” he declared proudly.

“Definitely drunk,” Gerard laughed.

“Fuck you,” was Ramos’s wittily mumbled reply. He was slightly flushed from drink, and his dishevelled hair could only be described as fluffy. 

Suddenly, Gerard’s hand was moving as if by its own accord, going to run through the endearing mess on the other man’s head. “I’m still not used to it being short,” he murmured, pulling his hand back before he’d be unable to pass the gesture off as a casual touch.

Ramos reached his own hand up to touch his hair, and for a moment something almost akin to insecurity crossed his face. “You don’t like it?” he demanded. His tone was more challenging than insecure, and Gerard brushed the earlier expression off as nothing more than his imagination.

“I like it,” he replied simply. His voice came out a little lower and rougher than he’d intended it to, and perhaps that or something in his gaze betrayed him, because suddenly Ramos was looking at him intently, something dark and dangerous pooling in the depths of his impossibly warm brown eyes.

Gerard broke the gaze first, turning back to the room and letting the sights and sounds of the party flood back into his senses. After a moment of recovery, he shot an easy smile at the man beside him. “We won,” he said. “We won again.”

Ramos’s face broke into a grin, and before Gerard knew what was happening, the Sevillan was shifting closer, throwing an arm around Gerard’s shoulders, his face suddenly too close, the breath from his lips ghosting across Gerard’s skin. “We’re a fucking constellation,” he breathed. And then those lips were moving closer still, pressing a sloppy kiss onto Gerard’s cheek, just a little too close to the corner of his mouth.

Gerard froze. The moment seemed to drag on for an eternity, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, and in that moment Gerard could feel a reaction surging up through his body like hot lava, ready to explode. He choked out a laugh. “We are,” he managed to say. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. He stood quickly, forcing himself away from Ramos’s heat. “I have to go,” he said.

“You always fucking do,” he thought he heard behind him as he walked away. 

He must have imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andalusian accents are fun. Drunken Andalusian accents are EVEN MORE FUN. If you ever get a chance to drink with an Andalusian, DO IT.


	4. El Clásico

Real Madrid won El Clásico. It wasn’t as crushing a defeat as some, but Gerard still felt it pressing unbearably down on his shoulders as he left the pitch and trudged to the showers, hoping the hot water would wash some of the weight off his shoulders. He didn’t know how long he spent there, but by the time he was finished, everyone else had gone. 

He was busy wrapping a towel around his waist as he exited the showers, and it took him a moment to realize he was not alone. Sergio Ramos was sitting on the other side of the room, absently checking his phone. Gerard stopped in his tracks. Of all the people he would have been expecting to see, Ramos was not on the list.

Ramos looked up, a smile spreading across his face at the sight of the other man. “Piqué,” he greeted.

“What are you doing here?” was all Gerard could think to say.

“Making sure all of you lot is out of our stadium.” Ramos raised an eyebrow at him. “But it seems you can’t get the Bernabéu out of the Bernabéu.”

Gerard was not in the mood. “Don’t worry, I’m just leaving.” He moved over to his things and started dressing himself. He could feel the other man’s eyes on his every movement, but he didn’t look up.

“Geri.” The word was spoken softly, almost tenderly, and this finally brought Gerard’s attention back to the other man. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Ramos use that tone in all the years he’d known him. The Madrid player was watching him closely, and Gerard’s heart was suddenly beating a little faster under the heat of his gaze.

Ramos stood suddenly, crossing the space between them in a few strides and pulling Gerard into his arms. Gerard’s body stiffened in surprise at the sudden touch, his own arms remaining limp and unresponsive at his sides. And then soft lips were kissing his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and it was all too much for him to process as his brain spun dizzily and his heart pounded in his ears. “Sergio,” he choked out, his breath catching in his throat as the other man’s lips ghosted up the side of his neck to his ear.

“I thought I could make you feel better,” Ramos whispered.

Gerard’s mind snapped back into focus, and he pushed the man away, a little more roughly than intended. “I don’t need your pity, Ramos,” he said coldly. He turned away, gathering his things without looking up again. Only when he was about to leave the room did he stop and look back. Ramos hadn’t moved, still standing where Gerard had thrust him, his eyes blankly staring forward at nothing. Gerard forced a smile onto his face. “If you really want me to feel better, you should let us get in a few more goals next time.”

This seemed to draw Ramos out of whatever trance he was in. He turned his head to look at Piqué, a humourless smile on his face. “Is that what it takes for you, Piqué? Winning something?” He strode to the door, pushing past the taller man and out of the room before Gerard could even begin to figure out how to answer his question. 

There was an ache in Gerard’s chest as he watched Sergio Ramos walk away from him, the only thing in his mind the memory of how cold those beautiful brown eyes had been, and how he never wanted those eyes to look at him that way again.


	5. All the Stars Shattered

Gerard Piqué lost to Russia in the World Cup. Not Spain. Not the Spanish team. Gerard Piqué, singlehandedly. Literally. He knew it, all of Spain knew it, and he was sure his teammates all knew it too, though they would never say it. Gerard Piqué lost to Russia, and Gerard Piqué made Sergio Ramos cry.

It was this image that was burned in his mind as he sat alone in his hotel room, the image of his captain’s anguish, released openly on the pitch for all the world to see. He took another drink, straight from the bottle. His glass and any pretense of civility had been abandoned long ago, replaced by the need to chase all thoughts and memories from his mind. And still, that image stubbornly lingered there.

He didn’t respond to the first knock. Or the second. Only when the knocking became irritatingly insistent did he rise from the bed and move to wrench the door open, ready to tell whoever was on the other side exactly what he thought of their persistence. The words died instantly on his lips at the sight of Sergio Ramos standing in front of him. Gerard blinked, unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him. 

Ramos took in the scene in front of him with one unimpressed sweep of his eyes. “Drinking alone, Piqué?” he asked softly, and Gerard felt the words like a punch to the chest.

“Everyone else knows better than to come near me right now,” Gerard replied. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m the captain.”

Gerard laughed hollowly. “That’s not why you’re here.”

“That’s not why I’m here. Are you going to let me in?”

It was more of a command than a question, and Gerard moved aside to let the other man into his room, closing the door behind him and moving back to his spot on his bed. He took another drink from his bottle as Ramos settled himself on the unoccupied bed across from him. There was silence for a time, and Gerard knew Ramos was waiting for him to speak. “It was my fault,” he finally said. He saw no point in avoiding the obvious.

“It wasn’t.” Gerard knew the words were coming before they were even spoken. Predictable. Obligatory. False.

“Really?” Gerard raised his eyes to meet the other man’s, challenging. “Is that what was going through your mind when my fucking hand hit that fucking ball? ‘Poor Geri, it wasn’t his fault.’”

Ramos met his gaze evenly. “Is that what you want to know, Piqué? You want to know what I was thinking on the pitch, in the heat of the moment, when everything was on the line and you made a stupid mistake?”

“Yes.”

“My first thought was: ‘Piqué, cabrón, fuera de la selección.’”

The words hit like a lash, and Gerard couldn’t quite hide his flinch. He turned it into a dry chuckle. “I’m sure it’s what everyone was thinking,” he said, unable to force his voice to much more than a whisper. He looked down at his hands, no longer able to look at his captain, at the man he had let down. 

“I’m sure it was,” Ramos replied, no pity in his voice. “But that thought isn’t the one that matters. You know that. Or you would, if you could get your fucking head out of your ass for one second.” Gerard’s eyes flicked up again. The other man was still staring at him calmly, his face composed, but something almost like anger flickered in his eyes. “Do you know why that thought is the one you wanted to hear, Piqué?” Ramos continued. “Because you know what it is like in those moments. You know the things that can come to your mind when your body is ruled by adrenaline. And you knew whatever I said would feed this little pity party you’re having. But you also know fucking well that those thoughts mean nothing. What matters is what I think now.” Ramos leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Gerard’s. “So ask me, Geri. Ask me what I think, and I will answer honestly.”

Gerard hesitated, feeling like he was being tested somehow. “What do you think now?” he finally mumbled. His brain was in overdrive, frantically trying to catch up with whatever was happening. He’d expected pity or rage, and he had gotten neither, and he suddenly found his brain in the uncomfortable position of being forced to try and react to something coherent and logical, instead of pure emotion.

“I think you fucked up. You made a stupid mistake, at a stupid time. Your hand was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you got caught. Other times a hand is in the wrong place at the right time and you win the World Cup. Everyone fucks up. Sometimes nothing happens, sometimes everything goes to shit. But guess what, Piqué. You weren’t the only one who made a mistake. We all could have played better. If we had, your hand wouldn’t have mattered, and we would all be celebrating. Football is full of stupid mistakes. Life is full of stupid mistakes. And after a game like that, none of us are thinking about how you fucked up. We’re all thinking about how we fucked up, how we could have played better. We win as a team, and we lose as a team. So get over yourself.” 

There was a beat of silence as the two men stared at each other. “How many times did you rehearse that speech before you got here?” Gerard asked finally. “Do you have cue cards up your sleeve or something?”

Ramos laughed. “You don’t give me enough credit, Geri. Do you know how good I’ve had to get at coming up with pretty words on the spot, after all the times I’ve been asked to respond to whatever stupid shit you’ve tweeted on any given day?”

Gerard felt his own laugh bubble up out of him, the tightness in his chest suddenly easing, breath coming more easily to his lungs. “You don’t have to come up with pretty words just for me, Sergio. Just call me an ass and be done with it, I don’t care.”

“You’re an ass.”

Gerard shrugged. “I’m genuine. You should try it sometime.”

“You are genuinely an ass.”

Gerard laughed again, and Ramos grinned back. They were silent for a moment, then Gerard sighed, running his hands over his face. “Thanks for crashing my pity party, Sergio,” he said. “You’re a good captain.”

“True. But we both know that’s not why I’m here.” Ramos’s voice was quiet and even, but it had a strange intensity to it that made Gerard’s heart suddenly beat harder in his chest. 

“And why are you here, Sergio?” He met the man’s gaze again, trying to steady his breathing as he saw the raw hunger in Sergio’s eyes. 

“We played our last game together,” Ramos replied. “I wanted to celebrate.”

Gerard smiled slightly. “That happy to be rid of me?”

Ramos sighed and got to his feet. “You are a very difficult man, Gerard Piqué,” he said. His voice low, almost a growl, and Gerard felt heat flood his body. Ramos was moving towards him now, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Sometimes I wish you would just shut that pretty mouth of yours.” Before Gerard knew what was happening, Sergio Ramos was in his lap, legs straddling him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. “No running this time, Geri.” Gerard didn’t have time to question the almost pleading look in Ramos’s eyes, because suddenly that perfect mouth was pressing hotly against his own, and his mind gave up control of his body.

Later, when Ramos was on his knees in front of him, those lips finally going to where Gerard had longed to feel them for so long, Gerard felt himself burning hotter than he had ever burned before. In that moment, he and the man in front of him outshone every constellation in the sky. In that moment, Gerard Piqué and Sergio Ramos were brighter than the constellations, brighter than the galaxies. Together, they were the whole universe.

And when Gerard woke up the next morning and Ramos was gone, it was as though all the stars shattered all at once, and Gerard was left alone in the vast, cold, emptiness of space.


	6. Nothing Elegant or Gentle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to get this part up! Work is exhausting and depression is a dick. BUT HERE IT IS. 
> 
> It turns out there's going to be one more chapter than I had planned, since it still doesn't feel quite complete. I'M SORRY, THANKS FOR BEARING WITH ME.

Gerard did everything he could to forget that night had ever happened. It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of things to keep himself busy with, even in the off-season, and he threw himself full-heartedly into all of them. But if there was one thing Gerard had found he was not very good at in life, it was keeping quiet and not facing a situation head-on. That and controlling his impulses. Which is how he found himself, only a few weeks later, on his way to the airport in the middle of the night, with a one-way ticket he had booked only minutes earlier.

Only when he landed did he have the forethought to text Ramos to at least let him know he was coming.

“Piqué, what the fuck are you doing here?” were the first words out of Ramos’s mouth. He looked distinctly grumpy, distinctly rumpled, and distinctly perplexed as he let Gerard into his house. But let him in he did, the door seeming to click with an ominous air of finality as Ramos closed it behind him.

“I think we need to talk. Don’t you?”

Ramos eyed him warily. “Why? About what?”

Gerard raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “You had my dick down your throat less than a month ago, Ramos. And I happen to know for a fact that my dick is not so forgettable.” 

Ramos’s eyes widened slightly, and he got a look on his face like he was considering throwing Gerard right back out the door. But after a moment he let out a sigh, resignation settling over his features. “You never were one to mince your words,” he grumbled. Turning, he headed off down the hallway, making a vague gesture that Gerard assumed meant he was supposed to follow.

When they arrived in the living room, Ramos stopped, motioning for Gerard to take a seat. Gerard silently obliged, finding himself, for perhaps the first time in his life, unable to be the one to break the silence, even as it stretched out almost painfully between them. Ramos broke it for him. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, not quite meeting Gerard’s gaze.

“Alcohol,” Gerard replied without hesitation.

Ramos shook his head firmly. “Not tonight,” he said. “Not this time.” His voice seemed so small as he said it, his eyes so strangely sad, and Gerard recognized the look as one he had only ever seen on the other man when he was on the pitch, after a devastating loss. Sergio Ramos stood defeated before him, and something inside of Gerard’s heart broke at the sight.

“Nothing then,” he said, and Ramos nodded slightly, settling himself on the sofa across from Gerard. Once again, Gerard found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. There was so much he wanted to say, so many thoughts tumbling around in his brain, but he couldn’t quite manage to get ahold of any of them.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Ramos said finally, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on something just above Gerard’s head. “I’m happy to just forget it if you do.”

“I tried that. It didn’t work.” 

“Maybe you need to try harder.”

Gerard smiled faintly. “Have you met me, Sergio? I’m a talker. I talk.”

Ramos snorted. “Normally it’s impossible to shut you up.” His eyes met Gerard’s for the first time since he’d let him into his house. “So what are you waiting for, Geri? Talk.” 

And finally, the one thought that Gerard had been trying the hardest to ignore, the one thought that he had been determined not to start the conversation with, forced its way up through the churning mess of his mind, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer. “You left,” he said.

Ramos blinked, the guarded expression on his face shifting to a look of confusion. “What?” 

“No text, no note, no nothing. The next day you wouldn’t even look at me.” Gerard took a breath, trying to steady himself as all the feelings he’d been trying to forget – all the rage, all the frustration, and all the things he wasn’t quite ready to face – fought to escape their restraints. 

Ramos was staring at him in bewilderment. “You…” He trailed off, and Gerard could see him struggling to process everything Gerard had just thrown at him. “That’s what you flew across Spain in the middle of the night to talk about?” 

“ _You_ came to _me_ , Ramos. You chose to come to me, knowing damn well what a mess I was that night. You came to me, and you made me feel good, and then _that_ , and – _joder_ – I’m man enough to admit that that fucking _hurt_.”

“Did you want me to stay?” Ramos asked. He looked like he didn’t quite believe this conversation was actually happening. “Geri, you’ve been running away from me and my meringue mouth for practically all the years I’ve known you.”

“Because I’ve been wanting to fuck that meringue mouth for practically all the years you’ve known me.”

Ramos threw his hands up in exasperation. “And why didn’t you just say something? Don’t all your thoughts just fall out of your mouth?”

“Sergio, we’re world-class professional athletes. I don’t mind talking my way into some trouble, but even I think twice about that. Do you expect me to just walk up to my teammate and ask him if he wants to fuck?”

“It’s what I did. You didn’t seem so into it then.”

It was Gerard’s turn to blink in confusion, his mind going back over everything he remembered of their history together, searching for something that made sense. “El Clásico,” he said finally.

“El Puto Clásico.”

“We lost. Did that really seem like the best time for you to come onto me?”

Ramos shrugged. “Probably not. I learned from it though.”

“That you have terrible timing?”

“That you only want me when you’re drunk or high on a win.” Ramos’s tone was light, controlled, but there was an edge of bitterness to it that cut Gerard’s heart like a knife.

And it was the knife that finally cut through the last lingering threads of Gerard’s carefully woven shrouds of repression, denial, and restraint. Memories of Sergio Ramos’s lips on his skin flashed through his mind, and with them came nearly a decade’s worth of emotions, suddenly surging up inside of him, like a burst of electricity that threatened to tear him apart if it wasn’t grounded. Without thinking, he pushed himself up out of his chair and crossed the distance between them in a few strides. Leaning down, he seized Sergio by the back of the neck and pulled those beautiful, perfect lips to his own. There was nothing elegant or gentle or particularly skillful about the kiss. The gesture took all the desperation, the want, the _need_ that had been building up in Gerard since that very first kiss, and finally released it, gracelessly, onto the mouth that had haunted him for years.

Sergio stiffened in surprise at the sudden touch, but it only took a moment for him to respond, parting his lips slightly to accept everything that Gerard was offering to him. He reached up and roughly grabbed Gerard’s shirt, dragging the taller man down on top of him. They tumbled clumsily onto the couch, their lips never leaving each other, each kiss growing more desperate and more heated, their hands moving over each other’s bodies with an increasing urgency. 

By the time Gerard’s brain finally caught up with him, he and Sergio were both shirtless, and Sergio’s hand was working on making its way into Gerard’s pants. 

Gerard broke the kiss, reaching down to stop the questing hand from going any further. He buried his face in Sergio’s neck, panting heavily, his body shaking from the overwhelming flood of sensations surging through him and the effort of getting himself back under his control. He took a deep breath, then another, breathing in Sergio and letting the familiar scent anchor him. “This can wait,” he murmured into Sergio’s neck, once he’d finally recovered his thoughts. “It’s not what I came for.”

He could feel Sergio taking his own deep breaths. After a moment, the other man replied, and the undone, broken edge to his voice very nearly shattered all of Gerard’s hard-earned control all over again. “For someone who loves to talk so much, you’re doing a pretty shit job of it so far, Geri.” 

“You don’t make it easy for me, you know. You’re so fucking… ” He stopped himself, huffing out a frustrated breath instead.

“So fucking what?” Sergio prompted.

“I can’t, in good conscience, finish that sentence. Your ego is big enough already, tío. I don’t need to help it along.”

Sergio laughed softly, pulling his hand out of Gerard’s grasp and moving it up to run it gently through Gerard’s hair. Something swelled inside Gerard’s chest at the touch, and he had to fight back a sudden urge to wrap Sergio tightly in his arms and never let him go. 

The two men lay in silence, letting their breathing steady and their bodies calm. After a moment, Gerard pulled his head out of its shelter, shifting down to rest his chin on Sergio’s chest so he could look up at the other man. He let a hand trace absently over the defender’s exposed tattoos, smiling smugly as he felt Sergio’s breath hitch slightly under his touch.

“I thought that was just… gloating,” Gerard said finally. “That Clásico. Some twisted way of mocking me.”

“As a general rule, I try not to make a habit of mocking people by offering them my body,” Ramos replied dryly.

Gerard shrugged. “Those matches are intense. Emotions are running high. Neither of us was in our right mind.”

Ramos sighed and fixed his gaze up at the ceiling. “It was stupid to come to you like that. But you know how it is. People like us, sometimes feelings go straight to actions, without any thinking in between.”

“No, I have no idea what that’s like.”

Sergio snorted and smacked him in the head. Then he tiredly ran a hand over his face. “The truth is, I really wasn’t thinking much of anything.”

“Hardly unusual for you.”

The Sevillan shot him a glare. “Can you shut your mouth for one minute, cabrón? I’m trying to say something.”

“Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

Sergio glared for a moment longer, then shook his head in irritation and turned his eyes back up to the ceiling. “We won. We beat you. And my first thought wasn’t to celebrate, or anything that might have made sense in that moment. It was that you lost, and you’d be hurting, and I wanted to make it better. It was the moment I realized I was truly fucked when it came to you.”

Gerard stared at him for a moment, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Then he surged upward to claim Sergio’s lips with his own again, kissing him until the pain in those beautiful brown eyes faded to lust, until the tension eased from the tattooed body. When Gerard finally pulled away, it was to press his forehead against Sergio’s. “I’m not drunk,” he whispered fiercely against Sergio’s lips. “I haven’t won anything. But I want you.”

And when they kissed again, there was no controlling the heat and the need that consumed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't write Geri and not have him say tío at least once :P


	7. Brighter Than Constellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY FINISHED (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

Gerard was awakened in the most horrible way he could possibly imagine: by the sound of flamenco music. The second sensation he noticed, almost as painful as the torment to his ears, was the uncomfortable ache of a very cramped shoulder. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes, trying to get his bearings. 

He was sprawled out on a sofa, with not a stitch of clothing on his body. It was his state of undress that brought the memories of the previous night flooding back – memories of another man beside him, of kisses and touches and pleasure unlike anything he had ever known. His dick twitched a little in response. He ignored it, pushing himself up off the sofa with a yawn and a groan as his movement sent a stab of pain through his shoulder. He didn’t remember falling asleep the night before, but he made a mental note to make sure he moved to a proper bed first next time. A sofa was not ideal for two grown men. 

A vague uncertainty stirred in the back of Gerard’s mind, a fleeting thought that perhaps he’d never have to worry about that again, that maybe there was no next time, that this would be the only time he’d find himself in that situation with that particular grown man. He quickly shoved the thought right back down where it had come from. Yawning again, he set off in search of the source of the assault on his poor ears.

Sergio was in the kitchen, dressed in nothing but his underwear, tending to a frying pan on the stove. He was singing along to the wailing music that was blasting throughout the room, his hips moving in time to the rhythm. “OLÉ!” he shouted as Gerard appeared, his face breaking into a grin that made Gerard feel like the sun had just risen, despite the fact that it was well past noon. “Buenos días, Sleeping Beauty, finally decided to rejoin the land of the living?”

“It’s hard to sleep through this Andalusian nightmare.”

“Me or the music?”

“Both.”

Sergio’s grin grew impossibly brighter. “You love it,” he said, turning back to the stove as Gerard’s heart skipped a beat.

After a moment of standing in the kitchen entrance, smiling a little too stupidly at the sight in front of him, Gerard shook himself out of his daze and crossed the room to where Sergio stood. Coming up behind him, he wrapped his arms around the shorter man’s waist, leaning down to tuck his head over his shoulder. “What are you making?” he asked.

“Tortilla,” Sergio replied. He twisted his head around to give Gerard a quick kiss on the cheek, the casual gesture sending far more reactions fluttering through Gerard’s body than it probably should have.

“It looks good.”

“You don’t need to sound so surprised.”

“But Sergio, it almost makes you seem like a functional human adult.” Gerard smiled at the predictable cuff in the head and the “vete al carajo” this earned him. He nestled himself more closely into the warmth of Sergio’s body and yawned.

Sergio shot him a look of disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re tired. You just slept half the day.” 

“Well, _someone_ kept me up half the night.” Sergio looked a little too pleased with himself at this, but Gerard found he didn’t mind stroking the man’s ego a little. It seemed a fair exchange for Sergio’s surprisingly expert stroking of other things.

Gerard was jolted from of his contented resting place by an elbow in the stomach. “Give me some space, Geri, it’s ready.” Sergio shot a pointed look downward. “And go put something on, I don’t want you making a mess of my furniture.”

“You might be needing a new couch then,” Gerard retorted. But he withdrew and went to do as he was told, smiling slightly at the firm slap on the ass he received as he walked away.

By the time Gerard returned, breakfast – or lunch, he supposed – was served, and the horrific onslaught of flamenco had been silenced. “No need to get so dressed up on my account,” Sergio greeted him as he entered the room, eyeing Gerard’s attire with another smile that could outshine the sun.

“It would be rude to outdo my host.” Gerard moved to sit down at the place that was set for him, the delicious smell of the tortilla de patatas calling him like a siren song. 

A silence settled between them for the first time as they ate, and Gerard couldn’t help feeling that it grew more and more awkward the longer it stretched out, and the more time they both had to reflect upon the reality of the night before.

“Do you want a shower?” Sergio offered as they finished.

“I’d love one.”

The other man nodded and got up, gesturing for Gerard to follow him. Gerard found himself trying to peer into every room they passed on the way to the bathroom, curiously searching for anything that might reveal something about Sergio’s private life. The bathroom they ended up at was clearly for guests, and disappointingly devoid of any interesting insights. 

“You should have everything you need here,” Sergio said, motioning vaguely around the room, biting his lip in a gesture that Gerard would have called nervous coming from anyone else. “You can call me if you need anything else.”

Gerard nodded, watching silently as the other man turned away and started to leave. He might have let him too, had his eyes not caught sight of the tattoo behind Sergio’s ear, the sight sending a sudden surge of desire through his body. “Join me,” he blurted out. He hadn’t meant it to come out as demanding as it did, nor nearly as needy, but it had the desired effect. Sergio stopped and turned back to face him.

“Are you giving me orders now, Piqué?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth. 

The desire flooding Gerard’s body grew hotter, a molten want pouring through every inch of him. “If that’s what it takes,” he replied, not able to bring himself to care about how rough and uneven his voice sounded. “Come here, Ramos.”

Sergio obediently moved forward, eyes darkening with a need that mirrored Gerard’s own. When he was close enough, Gerard reached out and grabbed him without ceremony, roughly pulling him into his arms and capturing his mouth in an urgent kiss. Somehow, they managed to undress each other and fumble their way into the shower, though Gerard pretty much lost track of anything but the desperation building inside his chest, a desperation that was only eased when he had Sergio pressed against the wall of the shower, his mouth finally finding that tempting tattoo behind the other man’s ear, kissing and nipping and lapping at it until Sergio was moaning helplessly into the tile. “Geri… Geri, please,” Sergio choked out, and with these words, the desperation in Gerard’s chest abated all together, shifting into an even stronger need lower in his body. He gracelessly dropped to his knees, focusing the attentions of his mouth elsewhere. 

The broken cry that tore from Sergio’s throat was like music to Gerard’s ears, and it was a song he never wanted to end.

~

Gerard was absently flipping through channels on the television when Sergio came into the room, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel. He had pants on now, hanging low on his hips, and Gerard’s eyes wandered to the tattoo that disappeared tantalizingly under the fabric.

Sergio stopped in the entranceway, carelessly discarding the towel on the floor as he eyed Gerard. “Are you wearing my clothes?” he demanded.

“You don’t want me making a mess of your furniture,” Gerard replied, flashing Sergio his most winning smile.

Sergio made a noncommittal noise and crossed the room to settle on the opposite end of the sofa. He was silent for a moment, still eyeing Gerard with an unreadable expression. When he finally spoke, it was not words Gerard had been hoping to hear. “When’s your return flight?”

It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. Gerard had dropped in unannounced, with no idea what kind of plans Sergio might have for the summer, or whether Sergio would want him there in the first place. He shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

Sergio raised his eyebrows. “Presumptuous.” 

“Impulsive. I wasn’t sure I’d even be staying one night.” Gerard turned his eyes back to the television, not really seeing it. “That eager to get rid of me, Ramos?”

“No, I – ” Sergio cleared his throat. “I was going to tell you to cancel it.”

Gerard looked at the man in surprise. Sergio was studiously examining his hands. “Why?”

Sergio gave a slight shrug. “I don’t mind the company.” He looked up, meeting Gerard’s gaze, and suddenly Gerard felt like he was falling into those warm brown eyes, something warm and bright and alive blooming inside him, a whole universe coming to life and expanding in his chest.

It was an overwhelming feeling that sought some kind of release, and so Gerard Piqué did what he did best: spoke first and thought about it later. “I love you,” he said. 

Sergio’s eyes widened. “What?”

There was no backing out now, and Gerard didn’t think he would even if he could. “I love you, Sergio,” he repeated, more firmly this time. 

Sergio opened and closed his mouth a few times before he managed to get out a rather stunned sounding “Oh.”

Gerard laughed. “You don’t have to say anything back, idiot,” he said. “It was just something that needed to be said.” He held out a hand. “But get over here. I’m not going to bite you.”

The shocked expression finally dropped from Sergio’s face, replaced by a smirk. “I have several marks that prove otherwise.” But he obliged, scooting along the sofa until he was close enough for Gerard to wrap an arm around him. 

Gerard leaned down to kiss him, and the bursting feeling spread through his chest again, making his mind spin dizzily. And again, he spoke the first words that came into his head. “We’re brighter than constellations,” he whispered against Sergio’s lips.

Sergio snorted. “You really fucking love stars.”

Gerard grinned down at him. “Especially star centre-backs.” 

Sergio grimaced. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” Sergio shook his head in exasperation and leaned in to rest his head against Gerard’s chest. After a moment, he mumbled something, too quiet for the other man to hear. Gerard leaned in closer. “What?”

Sergio was silent for a moment. Finally, he sighed. “T’estimo,” he muttered. He looked up at Gerard, the glance becoming a glare when he saw Gerard’s face. “What are you smiling about?” he demanded. 

“Nothing.” Gerard replied, his grin growing even wider.

Sergio narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Did I say it wrong?”

Gerard shook his head. “I’m just happy to hear it at all, tío. Can’t I smile?” He pressed a light kiss against Sergio’s perfect lips. When he pulled away he was grinning again. “It _was_ the most Andalusian love declaration I’ve ever gotten.”

“It may be the last one you ever get if you’re not careful.”

Gerard laughed, leaning down to rest his forehead against Sergio’s. “Te quiero, miarma,” he said, still unable to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. 

This time, it was Sergio who pulled him in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For like the third time I almost accidentally wrote full-on porn before remembering I gave this a teen rating... I learned I should never give anything a teen rating :P
> 
> ANYWAY thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy <333


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